THE CLOSING OF THE GATE.
While Lady Graves was standing at the Bradmouth station on that Saturday in
November, waiting for the London train, she saw a man whose face she knew and
who saluted her with much humility. He was dressed in a semi-clerical fashion,
in clothes made of smooth black cloth, and he wore a broad wide-awake, the only
spot of colour about him being a neck scarf of brilliant red, whereof the
strange incongruity caught and offended her eye. For a long time she puzzled
herself with endeavours to recollect who this individual might be. He did not
look like a farmer; and it was obvious that he could not belong to the
neighbouring clergy, since no parson in his senses would wear such a tie.
Finally Lady Graves concluded that he must be a dissenting minister, and
dismissed the matter from her mind. At Liverpool Street, however, she saw him
again, although he tried to avoid her, or so she thought; and then it flashed
across her that this person was Mr. Samuel Rock of Moor Farm, and she wondered
vaguely what his business in London could be.
Had Lady Graves possessed the gift of clairvoyance she would have wondered
still more, for Mr. Rock’s business was curiously connected with her own,
seeing that he also had journeyed to town, for the first time in his life, in
order to obtain an interview with Joan Haste, whose address he had purchased at
so great a price on the previous day. As yet he had no very clear idea of what
he should say or do when he found himself in Joan’s presence. He knew
only that he was driven to seek that presence by a desire which he was
absolutely unable to control. He loved Joan, not as other men love, but with
all the strength and virulence of his distempered nature; and this love, or
passion, or incipient insanity, drew him to her with as irresistible a force as
a magnet draws the fragment of steel that is brought within its influence. Had
he known her to be at the uttermost ends of the earth, it would have drawn him
thither; and though he was timid and fearful of the vengeance of Heaven, there
was no danger that he would not have braved, and no crime which he would not
have committed, that he might win her to himself.
Till he learned to love Joan Samuel Rock had been as free from all human
affections as it is possible for a man to be; there was no one creature for
whom he cared, and, though he was naturally passionate, his interests and his
strict religious training had kept him from giving way to the excesses that in
secret he brooded over and desired. During his early manhood all his energies
had been devoted to moneymaking, and in the joy of amassing wealth and of
overreaching his fellows in every kind of legitimate business he found
consolation for the absence of all that in the case of most men makes life
worth living. Then on one evil day he met Joan, grown from a child into a most
lovely woman; and that which he had hidden in his heart arose suddenly and
asserted itself, so that from this hour he became a slave bound to the
chariot-wheels of a passion over which he had lost command. The rebuffs that he
had received at her hands served only to make the object of his affections
dearer and more desirable in his eyes, while the gnawing ache of jealousy and
the daily torment of long-continued disappointment drove him by slow degrees to
the very edge of madness. She hated him, he knew, as he knew that she loved his
rival; but if only he could see her, things might yet go well with him, or if
they did not, at least he would have seen her.
But of all this Lady Graves was ignorant, and, had she known it, anxious though
she was to win her end, it is probable that she would have shrunk from an
enterprise which, if successful, must expose Joan Haste to the persecution of
such a man as Samuel Rock, and might end in delivering her into his hands.
On the following afternoon—it was Sunday—Lady Graves informed her
hostess that she was going to visit a friend, and, declining the offer of the
carriage, walked to the corner of the square, where she chartered a
four-wheeled cab, directing the driver to take her to Kent Street. As they
crawled up the Edgware Road she let down the window of the cab and idly watched
the stream of passers-by. Presently she started, for among the hundreds of
faces she caught sight of that of Mr. Samuel Rock. It was pale, and she noticed
that as he went the man was muttering to himself and glancing at the corner of
a street, as though he were seeking some turn with which he was not familiar.
“I wonder what that person is doing here,” she thought to herself;
“positively he seems to haunt me.” Then the cab went on, and
presently drew up in front of No. 8, Kent Street.
“What a squalid-looking place!” Lady Graves reflected, while she
paid the man and rang the bell.
As it chanced, Mrs. Bird was out and the door was answered by the little
serving girl, who, in reply to the question of whether Miss Haste was in, said
“Yes” without hesitation and led the way upstairs.
“Some one to see you,” she said, opening the door in front of Lady
Graves and almost simultaneously shutting it behind her.
Joan, who was seated on the horsehair sofa reading, or pretending to read a
book, rose instinctively at the words, and stared at her veiled and
stately-looking visitor.
“Surely,” she said, “you are Lady Graves?”
“Yes, Miss Haste, I am Lady Graves, and I have taken the liberty of
coming to see you. I am told that you have been ill.”
Joan bowed her head and sank back upon the sofa, pointing towards a chair. At
the moment she could not trust herself to speak, for she felt that the blow
which she dreaded was about to fall, and that Henry’s mother came as a
messenger of ill.
Lady Graves sat down, and for a while there was silence.
“I trust that you are better,” she said at length.
“Thank you, yes, your ladyship; I am almost well again now.”
“I am glad of that, Miss Haste, for I do not wish to upset you, or retard
your recovery, and I have come to speak to you, if I have your permission, upon
a very delicate and important matter.”
Again Joan bowed, and Lady Graves went on.
“Miss Haste, certain things have come to my knowledge of which I need
only allude to one namely, that my son Henry is anxious to make you his wife,
as indeed, if what I have learned is true, you have a right to expect,”
and she paused.
“Please go on,” murmured Joan.
“I am here,” she continued hesitatingly, “to submit some
questions to your consideration; but pray understand that my son knows nothing
of this visit, and that I have not come to reproach you in any way. We are all
human and liable to fall into temptation, though our temptations vary with age,
disposition and other circumstances: it is quite possible, for instance, that
in speaking to you thus I am at this moment yielding to a temptation which I
ought to resist. Perhaps I am right in supposing that it is your intention to
accept my son’s offer of marriage?”
“I have not made up my mind, Lady Graves.”
“Well,” she answered, with a faint smile, “you will doubtless
make it up when you see him, if you do see him. I think that I may take it for
granted that, unless what I have to say to you should change your views, you
will very shortly be married to Sir Henry Graves.”
“I suppose you do not wish that,” said Joan: “indeed, how can
you wish it, seeing what I am, and his reason for asking me to marry him?”
“No, I do not wish it, though not altogether for these reasons. You are a
very beautiful woman and a sweet one, and I have no doubt but that you could
soon learn to fill any position which he might be able to give you, with credit
to yourself and to him. As for the rest, he is as much to blame as you are, and
therefore owes you reparation, so I will say no more upon that point. My
reasons are simple and to a certain extent selfish, but I think that they will
appeal to you. I believe that you love Henry. Well, if you marry him you will
bring this man whom you love to the most irretrievable ruin. I do not know if
you have heard of it, but the place where he lives, and where his ancestors
have lived for three centuries before him, is deeply encumbered. Should he
marry a girl without means it must be sold, leaving us all, not only beggars,
but bankrupt. I will not insult you by supposing that the fact that you would
find yourself in the painful position of the penniless wife of a person of
nominal rank can influence you one way or another, but I do hope that the
thought of the position in which he would find himself may influence you. He
would be driven from his home, his name would be tarnished, and he would be
left burdened with a wife and family, and without a profession, to seek such a
living as chance might offer to him.”
“I know all this,” said Joan quietly; “but have you quite
considered my side of the question, Lady Graves? You seem to have heard the
facts: have you thought, then, in what state _I_ shall be left if I refuse
the offer that Sir Henry has so generously made to me?”
“Doubtless,” answered Lady Graves confusedly—“forgive
me for speaking of it—adequate provision, the best possible, would be
made——”
She stopped, for Joan held up her hand in warning, and said: “If you are
going to offer me money compensation, I may as well tell you at once, it is the
one thing that I shall not be able to forgive you. Also, where is the provision
to come from? Do you wish to endow me with Miss Levinger’s money? I have
not sunk to that, Lady Graves.”
“I ask your pardon,” she answered; “it is so terribly hard to
deal with such a subject without giving offence. Believe me, I have considered
your side of the question, and my heart bleeds for you, for I am asking more of
you than any one has a right to ask of a woman placed in your position. Indeed,
I come to you as a suppliant, not for justice, but for pity; to implore you, in
the name of the love which you bear my son, to save him from himself yes, even
at the cost of your own ruin.”
“You put things plainly, Lady Graves; but how if he loves me? In that
event will it be any real kindness to save him from himself? Naturally I do not
wish to sacrifice my life for nothing.”
“It will be a kindness, Miss Haste, if not to him, at any rate to his
family. To the chance that a man in after years might learn to dislike, or even
to hate the woman who has been forced upon him as a wife under such painful
circumstances, I will only allude; for, although it is a common experience
enough, it is possible, indeed I think that it is probable, that such a thing
would never arise in your case. If he loves you, in my opinion he should
sacrifice that love upon the altar of his duty; he has sinned, and it is right
that he should suffer for his sin, as you have already suffered. Although I am
his mother, Miss Haste, for Henry I have little sympathy in this matter; my
sympathy is for you and you alone!”
“You spoke of his family, Lady Graves: a man is not his family. Surely
his duty is towards himself, and not towards the past and the future.”
“I cannot agree with you. The duty of a man placed as Henry is, is
chiefly owing to the house which for some few years he represents—in
which, indeed, he has but a brief life interest—and to the name that has
descended to him. The step which he contemplates would bring both to
destruction; also it would bring me, his mother, who have given my all to
bolster up the fortunes of his family, to utter penury in my old age. But of
that I do not complain; I am well schooled in trouble, and it makes little
difference to me in what fashion I drag out my remaining years. I plead, Miss
Haste, not for myself and not for my son Henry, but for his forefathers and his
descendants, and the home that for three centuries has been theirs. Do you know
how his father, my beloved husband, died? He died broken-hearted, because in
his last moments he learned that his only surviving son purposed to sacrifice
all these on your account. Therefore although he is dead I plead for him also.
Putting Henry out of the account, this is the plain issue, Miss Haste: are you
to be deserted, or is Rosham to be sold and are the members of the family into
which I have married to be turned out upon the world bankrupt and
dishonoured?”
“Putting myself aside, Lady Graves, is your son to suffer for
difficulties that he did not create? Did he spend the money which if it is not
repaid will make him a bankrupt? Indeed, will _he_ be made a bankrupt at
all? Was he not earning his living in a profession which his family forced him
to abandon, in order that he might take these troubles upon his own shoulders,
and put an end to them by bartering himself in marriage to a rich lady for whom
he has no affection?”
“These things are true; but still I say that he must suffer, and for the
reasons that I have given.”
“You say that, Lady Graves, but what you mean is that he will _not_
suffer. I will put your thoughts into words: you think that your son has been
betrayed by me into a troublesome position, from which most men would escape
simply enough—namely, by deserting the woman. As it chances, he is so
foolish that, when he has heard of her trouble, he refuses to do this from a
mistaken sense of honour. So you come to appeal to that fallen and unfortunate
woman, although it must be an insult to you to be obliged even to speak to her,
and because you are kind-hearted, you say that your son must suffer. How must
he suffer according to your view? His punishment will be, firstly, that at the
cost of some passing pain he escapes from a disgraceful marriage with a
nameless girl—a half-lady—born of nobody knows whom and bred up in
a public-house, with such results that on the first opportunity she follows her
mother’s example; and secondly, that he must marry a sweet and beautiful
lady who will bring him love as well as fortune, and having shaken himself
clear from trouble of every sort, live happy and honoured in the position that
he has inherited. And if, as you wish, I inflict all this upon him by refusing
to marry him, what will be my reward? A life of shame and remorse for myself
and my unborn child, till at length I die of a broken heart, or
perhaps——” And she stopped.
“Oh! how can I ask it of you?” broke in Lady Graves.
“I do not know—that is a matter for your own conscience; but you
have asked it, understanding all that it means to me. Well, Lady Graves, I will
do as you wish, I will not accept your son’s offer. He never made me a
promise of marriage, and I never asked or expected any. Whatever I have done I
did for love of him, and it was my fault, not his—or as much my fault as
his—and I must pay the price. I love him so well that I sacrifice my
child and myself, that I put him out of my life—yes, and give him to the
arms of my rival”—and Joan made a movement with her hands as though
to push away some unseen presence.
“You are a very noble woman,” said Lady Graves—“so
noble that my mind misgives me; and notwithstanding all that I have said, I am
inclined to ask you to forget that promise and let things take their chance.
Whatever may have been your faults, no man could do wrong to marry such a
wife.”
“No, no—I have promised, and there’s an end; and may God have
mercy on me, for He alone knows how I shall perform what now I undertake!
Forgive me, your ladyship, but I am very tired.”
Then her visitor rose.
“My dear girl,” she said, “my dear, dear girl, in asking all
this of you I have done only what I believed to be my duty; and should you, on
reflection, come to any different conclusion from that which you have just
expressed, I can only say that I for one shall not blame you, and that,
whatever the event, you will always have me for your friend.” And, moved
to it by a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed Joan upon the forehead.
“Thank you,” said Joan, smiling faintly, “you are too good to
me. Do not distress yourself; I dare say that I should have come to the same
mind if I had not seen you, and I deserve it all.”
Then Lady Graves went. “It was very painful,” she reflected, as she
left the house. “That girl has a heart of gold, and I feel as though I
had done something wicked, though Heaven knows that I am acting for the best.
Why, there is that man Rock again, staring at the house! What can he be looking
for? Somehow I don’t like him; his face and manner remind me of a cat
watching a caged bird.”
Joan watched the door close behind Lady Graves, then, pressing her hands to her
head, she began to laugh hysterically. “It is like a scene out of a
book,” she said aloud. “Well, the dream has come to an end sooner
than I thought even. I knew it would, so what does it matter? And now what am I
to do?” She thought a while, then went to the table and began to write.
She wrote thus:—
“DEAR SIR HENRY,—
“I have received your letter, but could not answer it before because I
was so ill. I am very much honoured by what you say in it, but it is not to be
thought of that a gentleman in your position should marry a poor girl like me;
and, if you did, I dare say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing
that, as they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can’t nest with crows. It seems,
from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I was ill. I
remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no attention to it, since
people often talk and write nonsense when they are off their heads. You will be
glad to know that I hope to get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see
anybody at present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon me.
I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another situation as soon
as I can get about. Thanking you again,
“Believe me
“Your affectionate
“JOAN.
“P.S. You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as she is
very _romantic._ I cannot help thinking how sorry you would be if I were
to take you at your word. ‘Just fancy Sir Henry Graves married to a
shop-girl!”
Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious epistle,
with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of art—indeed, just
the kind of letter that a person of her position and bringing up might be
expected to write to a former flame of whom, for reasons of her own, she wished
to see no more.
“There,” she said, as she finished re-reading her fair copy,
“if that does not disgust him with me, I don’t know what will. Bah!
It makes me sick myself. Oh! my darling, it is bitter hard that I should have
to write to you like this. I know that I shall not be able to keep it up for
long: some day I shall see you and tell you the truth, but not till you are
married, dear.” And she rested her head, that now was clustered over with
little curls, upon the edge of the table, and wept bitterly, till she heard the
girl coming up with her tea, when she dried her eyes and sent her letter to the
post.
Thus, then, did Joan begin to keep her promise.